


Kushiel's Queen

by tanwenmc



Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blindfolds, Bondage, Dom/sub, Edgeplay, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/F, Knifeplay, Masochism, Orgasm Delay/Denial, POV First Person, Painplay, Sexual Slavery, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 19:18:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14315409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanwenmc/pseuds/tanwenmc
Summary: Melisande gets everything she's ever wanted. Including Phèdre.





	Kushiel's Queen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tristesses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/gifts).



_"Every artist craves an audience, my lord, and she has chosen you. Whatever is to occur, it is her desire that you know she is its architect_."

I have thought over my words to my lord Delaunay many times since the day I spoke them, and wondered if there had ever been aught that either of us could have done to stop Melisande Shahrizai. For that is how I think of her, still, even though by right of marriage she is Melisande de Trevalion, Queen of Terre d'Ange.

If someone had known what Lyonette de Trevalion had planned with the Cruarch — if the Azzallese fleet had not proved such an effective distraction for the Master of the Straits —

Well, it did not happen. I know I waste time thinking of _what if_ , and yet, time is a thing that I have in plenty. The rich tapestries on the walls and soft rugs underfoot in my suite do nothing to change the fact that it is still a prison. I leave only when Melisande summons me — for her pleasure or for an assignation. Never for Baudoin's pleasure, even if he is in the room. As Alcuin told me — oh, it feels like ages ago — Melisande is the goad to Baudoin's desire. And I, I am her tool. In all things.

I run my hands across the smooth silk of my dress. A deep scarlet, only a shade or two off from  _sangoire_. Melisande directed me to wear it, when last she saw me; told me to be ready for her this evening. I feel a shiver of desire run across my body as I think about how she looked when she bade me prepare myself for her. I can conjure her face perfectly, see the arch of her eyebrows and the quirk of her lips as she gave me my orders. I know I am a captive, and yet — Elua! There are times when that does not seem such a terrible fate. Not when Melisande is the one holding my leash.

The door opens. I take a shuddering breath, hoping that I have held the pose of _abeyance_ to her standards. Melisande is more exacting than Delaunay ever was. She wishes me to be the perfect _anguisette_ , honing my skills for little more than the thrill of doing so.

She comes towards me, slowly, her slippered feet making no sound as they cross the soft carpet. I know I am trembling, and I cannot help myself. I know this is why she bids me wait in this manner, to heighten my anticipation and keep me on edge around her.

"Phèdre." The way she says my name is a caress against my bare skin. It is my cue to raise my head and look at her.

She is lovely, is Melisande. I cannot recall a time when I have not admired her beauty while looking at her. She wears a gown the color of a midnight sky, a blue as rich and dark as the scarlet that covers my own body. The deepness of the gown brings out the shining radiance of her pale skin. Her hand comes to rest against my cheek and I lean into the touch, a hound returning its masters' affection.

For that is the truth of my situation, no matter how my mind sometimes skitters around it. I am Melisande's pet. She keeps me for her amusement, to have one being in the world who worships her above all others and seeks only to please. When she is not around, the thought sometimes disgusts me. When she is … ah, when she is, I can think of nothing but her.

"Rise, my dear." I obey her words, keeping my gaze downward, as she has previously instructed me. Her hand cups my chin and tilts it up, and I am looking into her eyes. Drowning in those pools of deep liquid. I am lost in her. I was lost the minute she walked in the room.

Melisande bends her head and kisses me, stealing the breath from my lungs and the thoughts from my mind. Her hands rest on my shoulders, fingers pressing hard into my skin. My cry of pleasure is muffled beneath her lips. She is impatient tonight, is Melisande. Baudoin must have done something to annoy her, or perhaps his mother.

Her hands shift, come around to loosen the ties on my dress. It cascades to the floor, leaving me bare before her. She traces the outline of my finished marque with her fingertips. _We cannot leave a masterpiece such as this undone,_ she told me when she had Master Tielhard brought to finish his work. She maintains the fiction that I have chosen her patronage, skirting the edges of blaspheming Naamah's service.

I have gained a much greater appreciation for Melisande's finesse in the time since she became queen and took me as her pet.

Melisande's fingers continue their path across my back, lingering on the areas that are most sensitive. She knows my body inside and out, now; can find with unerring precision the exact spot that will wring the desired response from me. Her hands confirm my earlier impression of impatience. Her kisses become more intense, leaving me literally gasping for air.

And then her hands cup my buttocks and she whispers into my ear. "Now, Phèdre."

My body obeys. I am moaning and sagging against her before I quite realize what I am doing. Once, I would have been ashamed at how quickly she did this to me, how quickly my body yielded to her touch. Now…

There are many things that are different now.

Melisande takes charge of me, as she always does, guiding me gently but firmly to the wall that holds a set of four rings with silk cords strung through them. My wrists and ankles are bound, my legs spread apart so that Melisande might have better access. I am just beginning to come back to myself when I see what Melisande has placed on the table nearby.

Flechettes.

I cannot help the shiver of anticipation that runs through me, and though I have just finished one climax, I let out a moan of pure desire. Melisande's smile broadens. "You like this, yes?"

I do not answer in words. I shift in my bonds, unconsciously seeking something to grind my pelvis against. Melisande laughs, holds the blade she has chosen to one side as she steals a deep kiss from me. As she pulls away, I feel the sharp edge sink into my arm. My vision goes red as that sweet mixture of pain and pleasure washes over me. There is nothing else like it in the world, Melisande using the flechettes on me. Kushiel's scion and Kushiel's avatar. Together, as they were always meant to be.

As in so many other things, Melisande is an artist in this. She knows the exact moment that my reverie starts to fade, and when that happens, she presses down on my flesh once more. This time I see my lord himself, Kushiel's stern face, approving of what we are doing together. I cannot help but feel a surge of pride and love in the face of that approval. My lord Kushiel made me who I am, and even with everything that has happened because of it, I would not give up being an _anguisette_ for anything in this world.

Warmth builds inside me with each bite of the blade, each kiss that Melisande lays on the area she intends to mark. The press of her lips against my skin adds another level of anticipation. The vivid crimson world I am plunged into when my blood is drawn lasts longer each time. I have lost track of the number of scores Melisande has made on my skin, swimming in red as I am. I crave release and continuance in equal measure, sure that the next stroke will be the one that pushes me over the edge.

Crying out my pleasure with the kiss of each knife stroke has been almost rhythmic, and so when more time passes than I have become accustomed to, the red haze retreating from my vision, I open my eyes and look at Melisande. I do not — quite — glare at her, but I am sure my displeasure is writ large on my face. My insides throb as I pant, unable to form words. Not that Melisande would pay them any heed.

When she lays the blade against the very edge of my cheek, my body tenses with the anticipation. She does not usually mark my face, preferring to use the flechettes in places where the blemishes will not be visible to any others who might see me. Those select few people that Melisande sends me on assignations to are used to the sight of scabs — never scars; Melisande has said multiple times that she would never leave any permanent blemishes on me, as it would be close to sacrilege. My breath comes faster, shallower; I can practically feel my skin growing hotter.

The blade vanishes, and I cannot help the whimper of protest that escapes me. Melisande laughs, that deep rich sound that brings the red haze back to the edges of my vision. She places the flechette down, the _clink_ of it ringing loud in the otherwise silent room. Melisande turns and walks back over to the cabinet where she keeps all of her tools, all of the varied implements and devices that she has collected for the sole purpose of using on me. She removes a long, thick strip of cloth and walks back over to me, laying it across my eyes. Despite myself, I shiver at the thought of what she is doing. I will not be able to see where the blade will fall; I will not know exactly when it comes. She will keep me in a state of constant anticipation so that she might draw this out as long as she pleases.

I want to beg for her to grant me release now. I know she will not listen, not unless I use the _signale._ I still have one, though Melisande insisted that it be changed. I wonder if she is trying to push me into using it, just to show how completely she controls me now.

In her presence, it is impossible to forget.

Melisande traces her fingers across my body again, her touch light, almost gentle. She lingers on my nipples for a few glorious moments, rubbing my rosebuds between her fingers. Almost, she pushes me too far, but Melisande has always been able to sense my boundaries. Better than I have ever managed. She teases me a bit longer, ensuring that my world is narrowed to her. To the sound of her breathing, the touch of her fingers on my body, the traces of her sweet perfume. Her hands shift, move to cup one of my breasts, increasing the pressure of her fingers against this sensitive area of my body. I let out an appreciative sound, my attention thoroughly diverted.

Just as Melisande wanted, I find out a moment later, when she unexpectedly parts the soft skin of my belly with a flechette. I am taken completely by surprise, my gates flooding open, wave after wave of climax rocking me back and forth in my bonds. I hear Melisande's delighted laughter through the haze of my delight. She kisses the side of my neck, continues to caress my breast, tells me how she enjoys watching me. I cannot grasp the exact words, but they do not matter. Melisande is pleased with me, and thinking that jolts my body all over again.

"What a marvel you are, dearest Phèdre, dearest _anguisette,_ " she says when I am done. She caresses my cheek, touches the spot where she had previously placed the flechette blade. "I could watch you like this for hours. But that would deprive you of some of your fun, yes?"

"Yes," I reply, because she has asked me a question and I must respond when she asks me a question. She laughs again, and unties my ankles, placing herself in front of me as she unties my wrists. I fall onto her, limp, and she pats my back and murmurs soothingly.

Melisande guides me over to the bed — the large, soft, impossibly luxurious thing that she gifted me. She lies me down, then stands and begins unbuttoning her gown. Even drained as I am, I feel a surge of anticipation. Kushiel's gifts mean that my strength will return in the time it takes for her to undress and anoint her skin with the finest scented oils. I know what she will want from me, and I am too well-trained an adept to make her wait longer than is necessary.

Besides which, I can never deny Melisande anything. Not now. Not when she holds my entire life.

When she lies down on the bed, I take a moment to inhale the sweet jasmine scent of her. Jasmine for sensuality. She uses the oils as a code, betimes, to tell me what she wants. Camellia, when she expects me to anticipate her every need, when she wants my movements to be flawless. Dahlia, when she wants to see the spark of my former self, to see Phèdre no Delaunay instead of Phèdre, _anguisette_ to the Queen of Terre d'Ange. Eglantine, when she wishes me to come up with some new way of pleasing her. Heliotrope, when she wants nothing more than my abject devotion and declarations of desire.

Mandrake, when she wishes to wield her authority over me. Valerian, when she wishes me to yield everything to her.

Jasmine means that I can take my time and explore every inch of her perfect body. Jasmine means she wants me to run my hands up and down her legs. Which I do, with a will. My strength continues to flow back into me as I make my way up Melisande's body. I find her pearl and caress it gently, a shiver running up my spine at her answering sigh. She spreads her legs apart, signaling her impatience, and I withdraw my finger. My tongue finds the spot my finger has just vacated, and for the thousandth time I lose myself in Melisande. I am as attuned to her body as she is to mine, shifting my focus in response to her silent commands.

And when, after countless minutes of my intense ministrations, she finally climaxes, I feel my own body responding, a helpless joy at having brought such pleasure to Melisande.

And I know that I will never be able to escape her.


End file.
